Batman:Awakening
by DavidTaylorII
Summary: Reality meets Bruce Wayne.


**Batman:**

**Awakening**

**By**

**David M. Taylor II**

_I'm dizzy; stunned; …I'm spitting teeth. I can't believe it. My nose is in a different place on my face; and he's laughing…._

_Where…?_

_Behind__ me!_

…_punk. Trying to play _my_ game._

_Pitch black….my night vision lenses got smashed during the first scuffle. He's in the shadows; this alley isn't big enough for both of us; we've fought to a standstill; it's as if he can counter every move I've got. Almost an anticipatory feel to his stances…_

_I can smell leather, and judging from his footfalls he's only a few feet away; strange how he can control his breathing. He's mastered Shotokan…let's see what else he's got._

_A roar rises from somewhere in my spleen; I spring again, faking a roundhouse and blending it into a reverse scissor._

_A thing of beauty. A living work of martial art._

_And he laughs. Again._

_Dodging my attack, he plants a kick in my chest so hard that I'll wear his footprint to my grave. Cursing, high on my own adrenalin, and remembering Bane, I let fly a tear gas ampoule followed by a batarang._

*clang*

…_.not possible…._

_He stopped it with one of his own; in mid-flight; head. to. head._

_His weight is about the same as mine, he's right handed, and he's got a preference for feinting left while bringing strikes from the right._

_Just like me._

_This can't be….isn't….another insane attempt by Jason for any revenge he might still think he's due. Even though he knows my moves, he tends to rely too much on broad stances, and likes to deliver one blow knockout punches instead of peppering a foe into submission. Dick is all about footwork; he rarely uses his hands. Outside of those two, who else would-_

_Then he speaks, for the first time in this absurd melee._

"Jackrabbit."

_Two heartbeats worth of silence; and then he says it again._

"Jackrabbit."

…

_That's what my father used to call me when I was a six year old boy chasing bunnies in the backyard of the mansion; he even used the same inflection that dad used; who could possibly know that? _

_Doesn't matter. I'm moving into third-level stances & strikes; ones that I don't usually use, because most losers are horizontal by now._

_I can feel his sinews tightening from here; he's preparing to counter my attack already._

_Again, as if he can completely anticipate it. Then…he stops._

_And steps into the light._

"The reason that you can't beat me, Bruce; is because I _am_ you," he states.

_He knows who I am. I look at him…..his face….it's….it's mine. But not mine._

_Major mistake._

_What is it this time? Can't be anything new. Cosmetically altered stuntmen. Plant clones. Android duplicates. Evil twins. Mirror universe. Long lost brothers. Time travel. Global tests by cosmic beings. Mind reading shape shifting aliens. Bored now._

_He says nothing._

_Inside I laugh, because it's over. I've beaten every possible-_

"I am you. The Bruce that should've been.

Unmarred by anger, violence, death; driven by discipline and family honor, not revenge; no dark omen, no secret vows, no hidden caves underneath the mansion. No striking fear in criminal hearts."

_Whatever._

"My…our…parents are alive.

Dad has built his multi-billion dollar foundation into the first trillion dollar global conglomerate. And mom…..she just won her seat in the state senate for her second term; she also won "Mom of the Year" from _Time_ because of an essay written about her by Aubrey. Our _sister_, Aubrey."

_Aubrey? _

_Sister?_

_Clayface, or this white martian, or whoever he is, has to do better than _that_._

"Mom and dad broke their promise, didn't they, Bruce? That night, so long ago; before you went to see _Zorro_; they told you that they would always be there for you, didn't they? Then…your world ended."

_Nothing a mind reader wouldn't, or couldn't, know…that sister twist is a new one. But if this thing is another White Martian he would've used his superior speed & strength by now. He's been countering my every attack but not finishing it._

_Strangely enough, even unbeknownst to Alfred, my mother's autopsy _did_ reveal she might've been pre-_

_Out of nowhere, a net appears; I got distracted by his talking like a rookie…I can kick myself later…I'm caught. At least until I can unclip my laser. Got to keep him talking._

"What do you want?" I snarl.

"I want you to wake up, Bruce; wake up, and come home."

_This net….must have some kind of neural disruption built in…I'm slowing down, I….can't organize my thoughts….he's moving closer…_

"Wake up, Bruce. Wake up **now**. You can still have a life."

_I'm anticipating unconsciousness….or a death blow…when…_

…_.he starts __**crying**__…_

_what….?_

_I can't think…_

…_..Selina….I'm so sorry…._

…_._

When I woke up this morning, I knew that today was different.

Oh, the nausea was still there; food has never tasted the same since that night.

But the sun looked different when it rose; like it had a secret.

Aubrey didn't want to come…she said she's tired. Can't really blame her.

So I came alone.

As I make this drive for seemingly the millionth time, despair rides shotgun as usual, and he has ensured that my heart and my wallet are twins, both empty. Bruce, my only son, means everything to me. If there was something I could do, could give….I'd do it. I'd give it. Down to my last penny.

I don't know what's worse…having a dead son, or a living son that might as well be dead.

The sterile tower where they keep my boy comes into view; it's just sitting there, staring, like some fat white vulture. I keep forgetting that this place of healing looks so….profane.

Getting out of the car, that smell flops and smacks my nose like a stinky fish in a boat fighting for its life. That hospital smell, the one that is sanitized death with rubber gloves on. The corridor to his room seems to be getting longer every week; it stretches in front of me, but it's distorted, like in a fun house mirror. Maybe I'm just tired.

Ch-yeah. My wrinkles have wrinkles. I'm not just tired, I'm old.

Breathing this hospital air that tastes like misery, ignoring its antiseptic incense, and the moans of the damned, I again count the 247 dull gray squares in the hallway that leads to his room. Maybe there'll be 248 this time. Maybe I'll find a son in that room and not a vegetable. Maybe I'll stop dreaming about happier times. Maybe I'll want to make love to my wife again.

The door opens slowly, silently, and I….

Wait, my wife is here. And so is Aubrey. What in the world…?

Martha doesn't even look up as I come in. Aubrey manages a weak smile, because she knows that I know, if she beat me here, she must've been driving like she was at NASCAR.

"Hi dad," she mumbles, in that way that means, 'sorry I changed my mind and didn't tell you.'

Bruce, my damaged son, lies in that bed, that silver cage, just as he did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Still barely breathing, still otherwise unmoving, with a neural monitor as the only indicator that he's still in there.

Dr. Neibaum is standing in the corner, arms crossed. Still overweight, still balding, wearing the same brown pants and the same tan polo shirt and white jacket, still trying to hide his obvious affair with the nurse at the front desk.

My god the man needs a shower.

So far the sun's prophecy leaves much to be desired; this is business as usual.

Dr. Neibaum at this point normally hands me a [air quotes] "progress report"  
that always inevitably says 'no change,' but now he just stares at me. Then at Bruce.

Then he hands me a new chart.

A chart that leaves me speechless.

"Thomas? Would you like a glass of water?"

Like my stomach could keep even _that_ down in this awful place.

Martha says nothing, although her mother's intuition has already kicked in.

Sitting there with her 5" 4' frame mashed into that cashmere coat I bought her twenty years ago, wearing past-her-prime perfume, trying to hide her pain with too much makeup and gaudy eye shadow. And a cheap ass wig to cover her gray-brown hair.

My wife used to be beautiful.

"Well Thomas, this is where we are," he begins. "As I explained to you before, your son has become something of a case study; a twenty year coma induced by a gunshot wound, with signs of neither recovery or deterioration. Your son has made medical history."

"Can we please just get to the point?"

I snap. I had allowed him the grace of addressing us on a first name basis because he was a personal friend of mine. That might change.

"Alright, then. The surgery and medication that you agreed to has had mixed results, as we theorized it might."

I shift the weight between my feet. This man needs to talk faster.

"It does appear that we can make another attempt to fully revive him, but there has been some permanent brain damage as a result of the surgery."

Aubrey shrieks. "Brain damage? _What_ brain damage?"

Dr. Niebaum walks over to an x-ray chart and some new type of projector that I've never seen before. We see Bruce's brain come alive in green and blue 3-D before our startled eyes; I'd be impressed if I wasn't so pissed.

"That is the most difficult issue, Aubrey. You can see some discoloration here and here, yes? He was a child of eight when this happened; he has gone through puberty and young adulthood in this state, and the neurochemical balance in his brain is way off. Different areas have been altered for sure; personality, memory, fine motor control are all clearly affected, but we're not sure to what extent. If he revives, we can run more tests. That's all I can say for sure."

"Great, " I stammer out. "Just great. We've spent a small fortune on you private doctors, other specialists, 24-hour supplementary care, experimental medications and even allowed you to perform some perverted procedure, and the best you can come up with is '_If_ he revives?' "

"_It is not perverted!_" he shouts. A beat. Then more calmly, he states, "We have been working on this procedure for years, but we never had an adequate test subject. Most patients in this condition are eventually taken off of life support, or they die of natural causes, or in rare cases, make a full recovery. Thomas, there's a real chance here for-"

"Don't you lecture _me_ about 'chances' when we have spent the last twenty years of our lives trying to hold on to an ever shrinking shred of hope. We've argued repeatedly about euthanasia and allowed our marriage to disintegrate into NOTHING but caring for our son."

Martha looks up at me with eyes that are only partly alive.

"The birth of our daughter was shrouded in grief, because instead of having a healthy big brother to grow up with, she's had this shell of a man. This, this _joke_ of what my son could've been. So I'm sick of hearing about 'chances.' I want **results**. Period."

Neibaum is silent. Pensive. He looks down for the longest 10 seconds of my life. He then looks back up at me and says,

"Fine. We will try once again to wake him up, with all the associated risks duly noted and considered. But the fact remains, Thomas, that you, at best, will have a piece of a son. Not a whole one."

"Wait! …..please wait," Aubrey interrupts. "Promise me, mom and dad, that one way or the other, this is the end. I know that sounds selfish, but our family can't take this anymore. I can't take this anymore; I have never seen the two of you be anything but crazed with grief and I'm sick of it!"

I walk over to my weeping daughter. I squeeze her so tightly that my arms hurt. Martha says nothing and that says everything.

One way or the other, this is my family's last day here. I give Niebaum a pensive but final nod.

Slowly, almost in movie-like slow motion, Niebaum walks over to my son, pulls out a syringe with this weird green liquid, and injects it into him.

"Now we wait," he adds.

Just great.

It was about 2 am the next morning; we had all fallen asleep in our chairs. Foam started erupting out of Bruce's mouth, and he started slashing and jerking, yanking some of the tubes out of his arm.

"Tie him down!"

Niebaum called out to the orderlies that appeared out of nowhere. Seems Bruce had ridiculous strength for someone that hadn't really moved since he was a little boy. He was thrashing back and forth, and convulsing. Both Martha and Aubrey put their heads in their hands, but I couldn't look away.

My son was either being born again, or preparing for his last rites.

Bruce seemed to calm down, very slowly; then his eyes opened. But there was nothing behind them. He just stared….first in front of himself, and then straight up at the ceiling. I wondered if we'd made the right choice. After an eternity and a half of waiting, he turns and makes eye contact with me.

In all fairness, the last time I saw those dirty beautiful eyes full on, he was eight years old. But I didn't care. He tried to speak.

"uuhhhhhhhhh…..rrrrrrrrrr…" then he coughed some more.

"He really shouldn't try to talk, maybe you should-"

"Bruce? My darling Bruce, can you hear me?"

Martha speaks for the first time. Her silent screaming makes my ears hurt.

"…uhhhhhhh…mmmmmmmmmmm….."

Bruce is still foaming at the mouth. I commend his effort.

"Bruce; listen to my voice. Do you remember us, honey?"

Hesitantly, I cut in.

"We're rushing him, Martha he just-"

"_I am his mother! _If there is anyone capable of reaching him, it's me. Now SHUT UP THOMAS."

Suddenly Bruce sits straight up; spittle is still dripping from his mouth to his gown, staining it. His hair is disheveled, his face is unshaven, and he still has very little motor control or language capability.

"Fascinating," says Dr. Niebaum.

"Remarkable; this is unprecedented," Niebaum states as he continues to take notes.

_He looks at his hands._

_He looks at his father._

…_.His __**father**__?_

_He looks at his legs, covered only by a thin lime green grown._

_Then….two women. One middle aged, one in her early twenties. Both crying._

_Mom._

…_.__**Mom**__?_

_Then he sees the freckles on his forearms._

_Bruce closes his eyes again; he strains against his still waking mind trying to avoid the one place he knows he must look next._

_He loses._

_Bruce looks up into the polished convex mirror in the corner of the room….._

…_and sees his thick red hair._

_Hair that's the same color as his father's._

Aubrey moves slowly toward him, her strawberry blonde locks jangling, with a look of excited incredulousness on her face. She touches his left arm. It's a day I never thought I'd see. Between sniffles, she manages to speak.

"Bruce….my brother. I've been dreaming of this day for as long as I can remember."

She sobs and embraces him, wet slobbered gown notwithstanding.

"Amazing," chimes Niebaum, checking Bruce's vitals on his equipment.

_Bruce realizes that reality, like opportunity, is a harsh mistress; right now reality is clearly laughing her ass off at him. She continues laughing as she plunges the sword of truth even deeper into his consciousness; deeper, down into his heart._

Niebaum starts mumbling something about the National Journal of Medicine and his case notes.

_Bruce feels himself start to sweat._

_Two-Face. Riddler._

_Joker._

_Selina._

_All a dream._

"We'll need to run tests of course, and therapy is the first order of business," drones Niebaum.

_Alfred. Barbara._

_Dick._

_All psychological constructs. Imaginary friends if you will. A skewed internal fable where Bruce was both the narrator and the star; a fable designed to let a little boy escape into his mind. _

_Terror begins to bubble up in him like water in a screaming tea pot._

Martha speaks. Gentle now, like clouds whispering. My favorite tone of hers.

"I know what you must be feeling son. Listen to my voice, your mother is here.

Your name is Bruce Callahan, you are 28 years old. You've been in a gunshot induced coma for the past twenty years."

Niebaum says "Maybe you should take it slowly, Mrs. Cal-"

Ignoring him, Martha continues. My wife. She's got more balls than most men.

"Thomas and I were shot by a purse snatcher when you were eight years old. We were leaving the cinema on 35th & Markway. You poor dear, all the eyewitnesses said that you just stared at us as we fell, you must've thought that we were dead. You then rushed the gunman…you were so brave….and he shot you right in the head. It's just a pure miracle that we're all alive. After the paramedics revived us, they said your injuries were the worst. You were comatose, and they had no idea if…."*sniff*

Martha breaks down in sobs.

_Instinctively, Bruce reaches for his utility belt;_

_only to remember that he has on nothing but a hospital gown._

_He thinks to call Clark…._

_but there _is_ no Clark._

"Thomas, we'll need to move him upstairs immediately," says Niebaum.

_Truth is still slapping Bruce in the face._

_A twenty year fantasy. From a bullet in the brain._

"The senior staff will be so proud….do you mind if I take some pictures?" Niebaum reaches for his phone.

Aubrey glares. "My brother, whom I've never even met before today, is awake after twenty years. Is it too much to ask for some privacy right now, you selfish bastard?"

"Sorry," he replies sheepishly.

Then Aubrey turns her gaze towards me. She looks at me the way that only a daughter can; because a girl child knows how to stare down a father.

"Dad…..I'm not trying to make this about me right now. I just need you to understand something. I've said it a million times, but I'm not an only child. But I am. You can't imagine the pressure of having to live with the ghost of a brother you've never even met."

Aubrey has a way with words, I'll certainly give her that.

"I want you to promise me you'll do everything in your power to make Bruce whole again, dad. Promise me."

Ever so hesitantly, I speak. "….I promise sweetheart. I'll do everything in my power."

She smiles sweetly, with her tears flowing freely now, and turns back to Bruce. Somehow my daughter needed to hear me say that, as if my saying it would automatically make things be alright. If only.

Then Bruce starts to convulse and his monitors go berserk with beeping. I wish there really _was_ something I could do. But my daughter made me promise, so somehow….I have to make it happen.

Niebaum calls the orderlies back in. "I need help NOW!"

Bruce begins to shake violently, his left arm and leg moving with a mind of their own.

Niebaum starts muttering again. "Possible stroke….after effects…."

Three hours later, Niebaum has more good news.

"It's what we feared Thomas; we were able to stabilize him, but there was still damage to the brain. The bottom line is, he should be able to write with his right hand at some point, but no time soon. He will never have full speech capability; he will always be blind in his left eye, and with extensive rehabilitative therapy, he may be able to regain at least fifty percent use of his left arm and leg. I'm sorry but that's the best possible scenario at this point."

Well, I said I'd take a piece of son over no son at all.

I didn't expect fate to be listening so closely. Niebaum continues.

"We can begin the rehab therapy immediately; he no longer needs life support, but he will obviously need 24/7 care and monitoring. I have the number here for our affiliated home care provider division."

I manage to whisper out a 'thank you.' My entire family is too tired to cry any more. We're all mentally gearing up for this next battle; medical science has given me back half a son, and now we have to love him even more. I grab my wife's hand. She squeezes it back. Aubrey can't take her eyes off of her brother.

No one said this was going to be easy.

**THE NEXT DAY**

Waiting in this maudlin hallway just makes me want to start smoking again. I attempted a conversation with my son in the hospital room earlier today. We're still making the arrangements for his home care after he's released; I still don't know what to make of all this. After waiting all this time, I should feel…happier.

But I don't.

He was able to look at me, blinking very often, straining his jaw muscles, but I told him not to try and speak. I could feel the frustration radiating off of him like waves; probably from his complete disorientation to life after being out of the game for so long.

For some reason I chose to tell him about a conversation I had with Police Chief James Gordon last week; Gordon's information was perfectly timed, almost eerily so.

"Bruce….son. I can't make you understand how happy I am to see you. And there's something else I want you to know."

Bruce stared at me intently. I heard the relentless drone of the monitor's beep. I drew a breath that's deeper than anyone I've ever drawn in my 57 years of living.

"Bruce….they caught him. They caught him just last week. This has been a twenty year cold case, but they finally caught the man that did this to us. To our family."

Bruce glared at me like his eyes were about to leave his skull. I continued.

"His name was Joe Chill. He apparently was a hired gun under Carmine Falcone's mafia organization, and the day after he shot us, he got on a plane to Prussia. He's been living there but got busted for drug trafficking, and once our officials here caught wind of it, they had him deported. Seems like he's been bleeding a trail of death over at least three continents for the last two decades.

Things changed in the city so much after we recovered; we always used to go to Haly's Circus every summer. But then there was so much street crime all of a sudden. Anyway. The point is that the mob seemed to want to invade our city and figured that taking down one of its more prominent families was a way to show that no one was safe. It was effective too, because even many of the police have been bought. I'm going to do something about that one day. Very soon.

But for now, Chill is in custody, and the prosecution is ramping up its case against him for his laundry list of crimes. I'm praying that justice will be done.

And I'm going to have Alfred, or one of us, in that courtroom every day. Callahans do _not_ back down from a fight. Even if it's a legal one."

And then it happened. Bruce managed a very small, almost imperceptible smile. I knew that telling him about Chill was risky…but maybe it'll give him a reason to keep fighting for full recovery, knowing that the monster that cursed us was about to get his.

I could still use a cigarette but at least the weight on my chest just got a little lighter.

**ONE WEEK LATER**

"Thomas Callahan?"

"Yes. Mr.….?"

"Rusch. Lieutenant Frank Rusch."

When Alfred told me someone was at the door, smelling like a cop, I hoped it was with some form of news about Bruce, or even better, news about frying Joe Chill. But this doesn't feel like it belongs to either one of those camps.

"What can I do for you Mr. Rusch?"

"May I come in?"

"Yes, of course. Have a seat. Alfred, prepare Mr. Rusch whatever beverage he'd like, tea, coffee, whatever."

"Thank you. I'd like some Earl Grey tea if you have it."

"Very good, sir."

Alfred gives me an almost unperceivable but clearly pensive look. He knows what I'm thinking. Alfred leaves. Rusch sits. I sweat.

"I'm sure by now Mr. Callahan you've heard about the tragic accident at the circus."

"Yes, yes I have," I reply hesitantly. This may be going in a direction I didn't anticipate.

"The Flying Graysons have been a staple in Haly's circus for as long as I can remember. Hell I even watched them as a kid once myself. The mom and the dad seemed ageless even as the kids grew older."

"Yes Lieutenant. I took Bruce to see them once….before."

"Right. Well as you know, about eight years ago they had a kid; he recently joined the act. And then…this."

"I saw it on CNN. The whole family died when their trapeze lines collapsed, except for the youngest boy, Ricky."

"Well I'd like to talk to you about the youngest Grayson…about Ricky. The only one that survived. He was on top of the tower when it happened; he watched his family fall to their deaths."

"Talk to me about what? Do they need a grant? I've an academy in the Narrows for young men who-"

"No, Thomas. Not a grant. Adoption. Of the Grayson boy."

This is not what I was expecting. Even my speech is speechless.

"But…..and I'm not trying to be ugly here, Lieutenant….he's black."

"I know that, Thomas."

"I can't say that I ever saw myself having a blended interracial family."

"Just hear me out. Haly knew what a chance he was taking by bringing them on, but it was the Grayson act's biggest selling feature, a black family of trapeze artists. Unheard of in these parts. But there is an investigation going on and I fear for that boy's safety."

"An investigation into what?"

Rusch lowers his voice. "Into the 'accident.' We don't believe it was an accident. We think it was murder. Those lines didn't snap….they were _cut_."

"Good god. Is this….is this somehow related to Bruce? Is that why you're bringing this to me?"

"We don't know for sure. Our preliminary investigation seems to point to a mob hit. But we're not certain yet."

"If I were to consider this….and I'm not….but if I were, how would adopting this black kid make any difference? My family is already in enough turmoil. And his is dead. Who wins?"

…and then it hits me.

"My GOD man, have you no decency at all? You want me to take this kid in to make us targets again, don't you? To help you flush out the mob by attaching the one possible witness to this hit to a rich family they've already attacked. To make them _have_ to go after him and show themselves to finish the job; making us, in effect, targets that they can't resist!

Get. Out. Of. My. House. NOW."

"Thomas, you're wrong in what you say. There's something special about this kid and I-"

"I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT. RIGHT NOW."

Rusch stands up to leave. Alfred comes into view with the tea tray. I motion him away. Rusch hands me his card.

"Will you at least think about it? Will you at least meet with this boy? He has no other living relatives. His whole life was that circus. He was nowhere else to go."

"I know where _you_ can go. Straight to Hell. Good day sir."

Rusch leaves. I slam the door hard enough to rattle the Waterford Crystal glasses in the far side of the receiving room. And I don't care. The nerve of that man. The unmitigated gall. I've seen some disgusting things in my life, but this takes the cake. Icing and all. I've got one son to heal, I don't need two.

But somehow something tells me to keep his card. I listen to it. I curse myself for listening to it.

I see this is going to be a Bourbon kind of day.

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

I just don't understand. I can't.

Bruce was doing so well.

He had learned how to walk, albeit with a limp; that was to be expected. He was regaining some level of speech, we started to recognize more words…he had even made progress with solid foods. His left arm and leg were still unusable, but we encouraged him to make the most of what he had.

Then, in these last two weeks, he started to accuse me of….it was just so bizarre.

He said something to the effect of me being….the Mad Hatter? From _Alice in Wonderland_? He was also writing, one-handed, mostly using his pad; but he was coming up with these unbelievably detailed fiction stories. I mean, stuff I've never heard of before, even in the movies, where he was the protagonist, dressed up in some elaborate costume.

But the worst part was, he kept insisting that it was _real_. I didn't know what to say. What _could_ I say to something like that?

So, yesterday was supposed to be a milestone; his first trip to the bathroom on his own.

That's where I found him.

His body.

Somehow he had managed to break the supposedly "unbreakable" case around the ceiling light, and stick his right hand in the socket and his right foot in the shower.

He fried himself.

I found the note upstairs on his pad; its tone is bitter, and its meaning is unfathomable. We're going to bury him later this week. The nightmare is over, but in the worst way possible. I have finally, and completely, lost the only son I ever had.

God help me to understand why.

_Whoever you are,_

_I have tried every method I know of to escape. I know that this is not reality._

_What you call fictional stories I call memories._

_I have run out of options, and this is the only way out. Back to my world._

_But on the remote possibility that I am wrong, at least I don't have to live in this hellish lie, inside this broken body, any more._

_Bruce_

_Bruce WAYNE_

©Copyright David M. Taylor II

August 2013.

All Rights Reserved.


End file.
